


The Heart Is No Bargaining Chip

by neverlandlumos



Category: The Hobbit, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:07:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverlandlumos/pseuds/neverlandlumos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The passing of the Arkenstone devastates Thorin, bringing forth memories from his childhood he thought he laid to rest. Bard returns the stone to Thorin upon learning it's sentimental value.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart Is No Bargaining Chip

**Author's Note:**

> neverlandlost.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> \- AU: Thorin lives alongside Fili & Kili.

The silence that fell over the room was almost deafening. The party in the chamber, consisting of Thranduil and several of his elves, Gandalf, many dwarves including Thorin, Balin, Fili and Kili, Bilbo, Bard and few of his men. The dwarves present scowl angrily at Bilbo’s confession of using the Arkenstone as a bargaining chip to lure Bard and his men to battle. All eyes are glued to Thorin’s face, which remains blank for several minutes.

Bilbo hangs his head, but Gandalf pats his small shoulder. “Unfortunate as this may be, Thorin, it was a necessary evil. Bard and his people have slain the dragon that haunted your homeland.” The wizard says, pointedly ignoring the foul looks sent his way. “Without him, we would not be sitting in your Kingdom this minute.”

Thorin nods, but his eyes betray him. The blue of his eyes is sad, drawn out. He looks away, and out a window on the side wall. His jaw clenches several times, his tongue thick in his mouth as he attempts to speak. “It matters not.”

Balin shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “It was no mere stone,” he says sadly. He opens his mouth to speak, but Thorin raises a hand to silence him. The dwarf-king’s head hangs slightly, rubbing a hand over his eyes slowly. Thorin bites his bottom lip, an unsettling feeling of nausea growing in the pit of his stomach. He shifts in his seat uneasily, his emotions beginning to betray him.

“I shall return it to you, if you wish, king,” Bard says, stepping forward and closer to where Thorin is seated at the table. Fili and Kili brighten at his words, and Fili places a hand on Thorin’s back, murmuring to his uncle in Khuzdul. Thorin turns his head to the side to listen, eyes falling on Thranduil who simply quirks an eyebrow at Bard’s declaration.

“No,” Thorin declines, interlacing his fingers that rest on his lap. “It was given to you. Accept it as a token of your bravery, Master Bard. I thank you for everything you have done for my people. I am eternally grateful.” Thorin’s nostrils flare as his eyes redden, moving to face Bard, who bends in Dwarvish tradition to press his forehead to Thorin’s. Bard pulls away with a short smile before turning on his heels and leaving Erebor with his men.

“Uncle!” Fili reprimands, “why would you decline it’s return to us?”

“It is no longer mine,” Thorin purses his lips, “It has no value.”

“No value?” Balin asks skeptically, frowning. “That gem means everything to your family!” Balin’s gaze falls on Bilbo once again, before returning to Thorin.

“Not anymore, as it would seem.” Thorin declares, breath catching in his throat. He ignores the prickling in his eyes as he clears his throat, attempting to speak through the choked lump stuck there. Thorin’s chest heaves, eyes shutting quickly as painful memories of he and his father flicker through his mind.

 

_“Don’t you lose that, Thorin!” His father reminds him, ruffling a hand through his hair. He is seated on his father’s lap, wriggling with excitement as he picked up and carried outside. He is a mere boy of fifteen, no more than three foot, small enough he is nestled in Thrain’s arms._

_His father sits cross legged on the grass, a fair distance from the lake, who is hoping his son is not drawn to the water’s beauty. Thorin cradles the Arkenstone in his tiny palms, laughing as his father tickles him, hiding the stone under his shirt. He thrusts a chubby arm in the air, stone much larger, making nonsense noises as he runs around his father who watches carefully. He pretends to lose the stone several times, every time disappointed when his father does not ask it’s whereabouts._

_“Why is this so special, Daddy?” He asks Thrain, who shrugs, pretending he doesn’t know._

_“I couldn’t tell you, Thorin. But it belongs to Grandpa, so we better not lose it.” Thrain replied, smiling. He kisses Thorin on the crown of his head, laughing when Thorin throws it upwards and nicks himself on the chin._

_-_

_Thorin is thirty eight when he wants to hold it again. A pretty thing, glowing nicely in his upturned palm. His father makes a comment on how it’s beauty is similar to that of Thorin’s mother, and Thorin makes a gagging sound._

_“I hardly think so,” he responds and his father makes a tutting sound._

_“That’s hardly a nice way to think of your mother,” Thrain scolds, “better get out of that habit if you want to marry one day yourself!”_

_Thorin rolls his eyes at his father’s words as they walk around the royal housing of Erebor. It was a nice day, though breezy. His father drapes a heavy arm around his shoulder, still shorter than himself. The Arkenstone, though beautiful, had no significance to him personally, just another jewel that Dwarves enjoyed. His grandfather explained that it currently one-of-a-kind, none other to be found._

_Thorin rubs the pad of his thumb over the smooth surface before smirking to himself. He tucks it under his shirt like he did several years ago and runs off on his father who looks at him with challenging eyes. His father grabs him roughly, laughing, as Thorin yelps and stumbles, guards around them alerted by their behaviour. Thorin kicks uselessly as his father grips him tightly and forces him into a headlock._

_“Do not fear!” Thrain calls out to the guards walking their way. “Just wrestling!” He overpowers Thorin easily when he pulls harshly on his father’s beard. He admits defeat when he feels his father’s knee in his back, handing over the stone trying not to laugh._

_Thrain throws his head back and ruffles Thorin’s hair, who attempts to dodge his hand, smirking._

__

-

Thorin wipes his eyes harshly as they begin to fill with water and stands haphazardly, chair flung back in his haste. He accidentally releases a sob, and another, but remains determined to right himself and be a presentable king to his people. He rolls and squares his shoulders quickly, swallowing thickly as the pain of loss creeps its way back up his chest.

The memories of his father, and his grandfather before the falling of Erebor, before the dragon flitter across his eyelids without his permission. He cannot remember the last time he wept for them, possibly dead inside from grief, lost in the never-ending depths of loss, he is unsure. He has not cried for a long time. An uncommon emotion for him, though crying is not unfamiliar, and he turns as he struggles to regain his composure.

He hears Balin request Bilbo leave, but Thorin inhales deeply and dismisses the request. He sees that it’s not necessarily the Hobbit’s fault, the Arkenstone’s beauty weakens the toughest of hearts, opening the trap of greed buried in everyone upon seeing it. Bard saved his people. Bard killed Smaug the terrible. He deserves the stone more than Thorin does.

And it hurts Thorin. Cuts him deep in his heart, tearing him in two. He is no more than a dwarf of greed, hardly fit to be a King of people who have laid down their lives to reclaim this beautiful city, only to be lead by a lonely, corrupt King who loves only gold and jewels. He deliberates this over his mind, ignoring those around him, Bilbo attempting to defend his actions, and realises. The stone was a treasure he pined for helplessly as he was stranded, orphaned, the title of king forced upon him by his kin’s death.

Thorin loved his father dearly, and his grandfather, but after this long, the blood, sweat and tears he forfeited for his journey it has taken this long, until now, for him to realise. Reclaiming that stone, unfortunately, means nothing. His father is still deceased, tortured and starved and left for dead, his grandfather’s beheaded body flashes vividly through his mind, grumbling his resolve.

He braces his forearms on the table, forcing air into his lungs as he remembers the happiness that warmed his blood and kept him safe as a lad, his dedication upon reaching adulthood to make his fathers proud. He has failed them. _He has failed them._ Thorin’s heart shatters in his chest as he straightens, eyes welling with tears that fall quickly, dripping off his face and onto the table. He understands now, the stone held no true value to him, other than nostalgia. But it meant more to his kin than any other treasure, their hearts warmed by its glow, mesmerized by its beauty. And now, their most prized and adored heirloom is handled by men who know nothing of its importance nor its heritage. The guilt surges through him like a wave, choking his breaths, hurting him deep.

Fili is at his side immediately, unsure, but Thorin shakes his head and orders him and Kili to reside to the wounded on the lower floors. He cannot bear for them to see him in such a way, weakened by his emotions, not by war or poverty. Fili kisses his forehead quickly, he feels the comfort of Kili’s hand against his shoulder before they leave the room.

“Thranduil,” he chokes out, biting the inside of his cheek, “ _amin wanwa sen, ron ier wanwa_ ,” he says in Elvish*, ignoring the surprised looks from all parties in the room, hobbit, elf, dwarf and wizard. Balin looks at him worriedly, his expression curious though sad.

Thranduil stands from where he is seated on the far side of the table, opposite Thorin. “ _N’uma_ , Thorin,” the elf-king attempts, his voice calm, normally soothing, does not ease the pain growing in his chest as he grows restless, the anguish in his chest makes Thorin feel stretched too thin, uncomfortable as he forces himself to contain it.

“I have failed them,” he whispers in English. He shakes his head no when Gandalf tells him he would have made them proud. Thror and Thrain watching proudly from where they rest, reclaiming the home of the dwarves when they could not. Dwalin and Gloin, who have remained silent croon praise to him from afar, but their words fall on deaf ears.

“I have failed them!” he repeats, and the levee breaks. His hands grapple at his hair on the crown of his head as he breaks into hysterics, tears rippling down his face, which contorts to a face of sheer hurt and Thranduil crouches on one knee suddenly beside him. The elf removes his crown and places it on the table, whispering to him in Elvish to help him, calm him, Thorin does not know. He cannot stop the pain and guilt flowing through him as he remembers his father, his grandfather, the wretched stone. He cannot quell the sorrow in his heart as he weeps, his arms tightly wound around the elf-king’s neck as he wets the silken cotton of his robes.

Thranduil is patient, and rubs his back slowly for several minutes, methodically as Thorin cries, the dwarf drawing back slowly, his eyes reddened deep, bags forming under his eyes. “The stone,” he mourns, tone somewhat betrayed by his own words, “means nothing.”

The elf-king blinks at him, realisation in his eyes. “They are both dead. I cannot bring them back.” Thorin breathes deeply, forcing himself to be calm. Tears fall easily out of his eyes, he remains uncaring. His breath hitches still, though he turns and leaves the room, walking down the darkest parts of Erebor, fingers trailing over the carved walls needlessly. He reaches the tombs, forcing the door open with his memories, the door coded like all Dwarvish entrances.

Thranduil follows, he senses the elf out of the corner of his eye, and notices that several others have also, though hanging back staying close to Gandalf, seemingly ordered to do so. Thorin sniffles, the sound echoes in the room loudly. He steps down into the main foyer, kicking the dust off the stairs. In front of him, lay the supposed coffins of his father and grandfather, empty, their bodies taken by enemy or left behind in the scrabble to find safety.

With his sleeve, he wipes over the plaques with sad eyes, reading the Dwarvish already etched into the marble. He stares blankly at his father’s for minutes, swallowing thickly as he brushes a thumb over his name. “Forgive me, father.” He starts, his eyes shutting. He looks up with damp eyes upon hearing a horn, signalling the return of Dain, and numerous others to return to Erebor and begin the process of life again. “I now, say goodbye to you. I’m… I’m sorry,” he finishes, hunched over the coffin, his forehead resting on the marble, his face wet, though his eyes rid of tears for the first time since the meeting.

—

He doesn’t know how long he stayed at the tomb, nor how he gets to the King’s chambers, assuming Thranduil carried him like a drunk fool. He buries himself in the soft bed sheets a maid must have changed quickly before he was placed there. Thorin groans and rubs an eyelid of sleep, hissing at the tender ache, and turns over. He lays there for minutes, possibly hours when he hears a knock at the door.

Thorin hopes he grunts loud enough, and attempts a small smile when Fili’s head pokes around the door. His nephew is without Kili, and Thorin raises an eyebrow in question, quickly looking down himself, checking his nakedness- relieved when he notices he’s wearing a bed shirt and cotton shorts.

“Hey, Uncle,” Fili greets, bringing over a tray of food and resting it on the table next to the bed. He eats some of the sausage himself, and Thorin sighs deeply, drinking some water, just realising his dehydration. His nephew is silent, an uncommon occurrence for Fili. They eat in silence, long and drawn out, so Thorin breaks it.

“Do not blame the halfling for his actions,” Thorin commands his heir. “He knew we required assistance, and sought the opportunity to lure Bard into battle. If I had have known they were also tempted by greed, surely we would have offered them wealth also.”

Fili scoffs but shrugs, his face is determined and angry. Thorin frowns at him, it is in Fili’s nature to be kind, befriend and laugh, not this brooding young lad, holding grudges for his sake. He stares at the side of Fili’s head until his nephew addresses him, which, fortunately for him, does not take long. Fili throws his hands up, annoyed. “He just, threw it away, like it meant nothing to this family,” he explains, fiddling with a braid nervously. “You think he would’ve been more honest, not hiding it for himself and smuggling it around like a fucking thief.”

“Watch your language,” he scolds, but he agrees with a nod of his head. “He was a burglar after all,” he attempts with a sad smile, but his nephew does not take the bait. “Fili, we must not dwell on the past, now. We have a kingdom to build, do we not? That starts with me getting out of bed.”

Fili nods, they speak of arrangements, and his nephew leaves his chamber. Thorin turns and looks around, curiously touching things and smiling at some of the possessions he remembers from childhood. He peers out the window and sees several dwarves standing on ladders, already fixing the damage to the south of the mountain, clearing rubble and shifting stone around the base. He washes his face in the filled bowl, raising an eyebrow at his own actions, having not heard a maid come in- again! He also towels water over his limbs, quickly dressing and rebraiding to be presentable.

He walks down the stairs, nodding at other’s acknowledgments, smiling at the younger dwarves who scuffle around the kingdom finding their place as they begin their work serving the royal family. They bow upon his arrival, and he nods in return, walking past them and towards the company, still close-knit despite the reclaiming of the city. Gandalf gives him a weak smile, Bofur’s as broad as ever.

“Good morning,” he greets, crouching on one knee in front of them. They stare at him, unsure of his actions. He looks behind him, under his hair, watching the dwarves who fill the kingdom bow also. Fili and Kili stand and crouch at their uncle’s side, facing the company of: Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Oin, Gloin, Ori, Nori, Dori, Dwalin, Balin, Bilbo and Gandalf. “I bow to you, my friends, for this Kingdom would not become not mine, nor ours, without you and your heroic actions come this journey. We are forever in your debt,” he announces, promises them, “I, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

Fili and Kili stand with cheers, rushing over and hugging as many dwarves as they can at once. Thorin stands after them, smiling, genuine and follows them, smirking at the several arms and hands wind around his neck, laughing when Bombur is tripped, Ori landing on top of him awkwardly, Bofur pushing and pulling happily until Dwalin is covered by all dwarves expect Thorin.

“Definitely a sight I wouldn’t have thought to ever see here, in Erebor,” Gandalf comments, smiling at the groans from the pile of dwarves. He turns when he is addressed by an unfamiliar voice, surprised to see Bard before him. He crouches as he fully bows to Thorin, who raises a hand to stop him, but the man does so anyway. He stays kneeling on his knee as he reaches into his pocket and handles the Arkenstone, offering it to Thorin.

Thorin shakes his head. “That belongs to you, Master Bard.”

Bard smiles at him, and nods rightfully so, but he does not relent. He grabs Thorin’s arm, and forces his palm to open. “You told me this was worth nothing, that it had no value,” Bard states, looking up at Thorin in wonder. He closes Thorin’s fingers over the stone, gripping his much larger hands around Thorin’s own, “there is no price you can place on sentimental value, King.”

Thorin gives him a small smile, decline still heavy on his lips. He looks down at the glowing jewel, and back up to Bard’s face, the other speaking before he can. “Sure, holding memories of your fathers is enough for your legacy, but sometimes looking up and seeing a physical remembrance helps to move on as well.” He stands, and gives Thorin room so that he can walk over to the King’s throne and reattach the Arkenstone to it’s place above it. Thorin’s heart swells upon seeing it, feels some of his heartbreak mend at seeing it, knowing he can put the deaths of his kin behind him, nostalgia forcing a smile on his face.

He gestures for Bard to bow once again, not out of kingly respect, just so they are more level height-wise, and places heavy hands on the man’s shoulders. Bard leans up and meets him as they press their foreheads together once again. He offers Thorin a small smile. Thorin tilts his head, deliberating over his words. “Dwarves are your friends, Master Bard. Should you need aid, or assistance, do not hesitate to ask of me.” Bard hugs him, Thorin stands awkwardly, unused to human affection, his eyes flickering to Bilbo who gestures how to reciprocate with his own arms outright, palms pointed to one another. He reaches around Bard’s shoulders, taller now the man is crouched, hugging him in return. Bard leaves with supplies and water.

He shows Bilbo the renewal work being carried out on the more damaged parts of the kingdom, brushing off his apologies when Bilbo tries to explain his actions. He ruffles the hobbit’s hair, like his father used to with himself, and informs Bilbo that the past shall stay there. He sees no reason to hold a grudge against the halfling, he sees no point in forcing hatred upon someone who thought they were doing what was best. He welcomes Bilbo to visit, should he ever wish to, or leave the Shire again.

Fili suggests he should ride alongside Thranduil to Mirkwood, as a returned favour for offering comfort during his time of grief. Thorin deliberates on how his nephew became so wise, and in many ways diplomatic, as it surely did not come from him. He does as his nephew suggests, brushing off Dwalin’s lame insult that FIli is now the King. He reaches the edge of Thranduil’s domain, and accepts the offer to join him for food and wine, Fili chatting happily to the elf-king’s son, Legolas. Kili remains at Erebor with Balin, unhappy he is separated from his brother, but understands that Fili has responsibilities of his own as the direct heir of the throne.

As they venture back to Erebor, Thranduil places a soft kiss upon his lips, his nose and his eyelids and caresses the back of his neck with long, pale fingers. Fili and Legolas snicker at their antics, cooing ridiculous love quotes at them over their turned shoulders. Thorin gives Thranduil an exasperated smile, shaking his head. Thranduil comforts him regarding his father and grandfather’s death in Dwarvish this time, soothing him now where he couldn’t before, welcomes him to Mirkwood again. Thorin informs the elf-king that is presence is expected at Erebor. Thranduil wishes him long life and prosperity in case of long life separation, and watches with Legolas as he and Fili return to their rightful home.

\- fin

*I have failed them. They are failed. A shit and rushed translation that probably means something else, lol


End file.
